<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Spun from Starlight by Evian_99</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26559763">Spun from Starlight</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evian_99/pseuds/Evian_99'>Evian_99</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Hobbit - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bard being and awesome and supportive dad, Blind Thranduil, Good Parent Thranduil, M/M, Protective Bard, Protective Bardlings, Protective Legolas, Wizard Bard, Wizard Bardlings, and one giant cat, for shenanigans, he knows the easiest way is to give in to the fussing, protective everyone tbh</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 09:27:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>15,573</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26559763</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evian_99/pseuds/Evian_99</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Bard knows he’s not quite human, nor that his children are. Accidents of the magical sort are too common in his household to be so. So, when their households mix, things are perfectly set for interesting times under the mountain. </p><p>In between the merriment, however, a sinister shadow is preying upon them, biding its time to strike. And when it inevitably does, things will never be the same again.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bard the Bowman &amp; Thranduil, Bard the Bowman/Thranduil</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>74</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Despite the biting cold, it is a beautiful day. The sun is bright, reflecting upon the rough water like glittering diamonds. For once, the sky is clear of clouds. Snow dusts the riverbanks and deer are foraging for food in peace. Bard feels an intense happiness fill his heart as hums a merry tune. These are days he genuinely loves his job.</p><p>A fallen tree blocks his way. While it is luckily not a thick one, it still forces him to dock his raft. Throwing a rope around a heavy boulder, he can’t suppress a curse as icy water enters his boots. Grumbling, he grabs an axe only to pause.</p><p>Bard sniffs the air, realising with a sinking feeling that it can be nothing but blood. It is a stench he will never be able to forget.</p><p>So close to where he normally delivers his freight, the forest is not as menacing. However, he knows the dangers of the wood better than most. He likely wouldn’t have dared to investigate if it weren’t for the unmistakable sound of an animal in distress. The sound is so heart-breaking that there’s really no question about what he must do.</p><p>‘I don’t have a choice, do I?’ he asks himself.</p><p>His axe is all he has for a weapon and he grips it tightly. Cautious, and straining to hear the slightest of sounds, he places his feet in the snow. They immediately sink deep in the moss below, making it a slow and heavy going. By the time he has reached the first trees, Bard is panting. The tree roots make it easier, but also trickier. One misstep and the elk will be the least of his worries.</p><p>The sound is more audible now. Hopefully, it won’t be much further lest he loses his way. Already he has lost sight of the river, the sound of its rushing currents growing fainter the farther he goes.</p><p>When the moss gives way to soil, so do the trees. He nearly stumbles upon the clearing containing a sight he doesn’t ever wish to see repeated. A dozen or so elves are littered around like broken dolls, their immortal lights forever dimmed from a fight they had not been prepared to have. The stench of blood is overwhelming, making him recoil before he steels himself.</p><p>The foul corpses of orcs are scattered in between, their odour causing him to gag as Bard enters the battlefield. Except for the elk, he doesn’t see any survivors. That is, until he approaches said elk.</p><p>Expertly hidden by the tall grass lies an elf. His hair is pale as starlight, and despite being all tangled and dirtied by twigs and blood and dirt, it is glowing. Bard’s hand automatically reaches to smooth out some of the tangles, marvelling over the softness of the strands. His attire looks finer than that of the other elves, but all are dressed in such high-quality garbs that this doesn’t have to say much of anything.</p><p>Then the elf breathes a low moan. His eyes are pinched shut as he trashes his head around as if struggling to escape from nightmarish memories. Bard soothes him as he would his children, frowning as he feels how hot the other is.</p><p>The elf is pale, far too pale—only a feverish blush stains his cheeks. The bargeman tries to inspect the fallen warrior’s body, but the armour is too intricately fastened for him to figure out how to open it. No matter whether he is afflicted with a terrible infection or a poisoned wound, if the elf is to survive, he will need treatment.</p><p>Immediately, Bard feels panic rising. He is about as far from a healer as possible. His knowledge is limited to scraped knees, bruises, and some questionable potions. And without knowing the way to the Elvenking’s Halls, he can hardly return him to his people. To make matters even worse, it is getting late. Rubbing his face, the man breathes a long, heavy sigh. ‘To Laketown it is then.’</p><p>But even getting the elf upright proves a challenge.</p><p>‘Aren’t elves supposed to be light?’ Bard grunts. The elk whinnies, butting his head under the elf’s side. Trying again, he has no choice but to lower him onto the ground.</p><p>‘It’s the armour,’ he pants, ‘But how to get it off?’ Now the elk bumps his head against a fallen blade. Feeling a little stupid for not thinking of that, Bard toils to work open the many clasps. ‘Fashion over practicality never works out, I tell ya.’ The elk makes a confirming noise, causing him to laugh. ‘You’re a smart fella, aren’t ya?’</p><p>Dusk has already set in by the time all the armour is off. There is not a lot of time if he wants to get them back before dark. Luckily, the elf is a lot lighter this time around, and with the help of the elk, Bard manages to get the warrior slumped over the animal’s back. Walking back into the general direction of which he came, the bargeman feels beyond relieved when the sound of the river current reaches him.</p><p>From there, he makes faster going than his trip towards the clearing, now fuelled with the urgency of the elf’s irregular breathing. The sacrifice of six barrels is one the Elvenking will just have to accept, he thinks as he pushes them into the water. Hopefully, the great king will not be overly mad at him when he learns it was to rescue one of his subjects.</p><p>‘Worries for later’, he says as he strains his muscles to topple the barrels over.</p><p>Lifting the elf from his steed, Bard transfers him to the raft at the cost of soaked pants. When safely positioned in the middle, head cushioned by his vest, the bargeman looks up at the elk. The animal gives an almost stately nod before trotting off.</p><p>Maybe to inform the elves of what transpired.</p><p>It is far darker now. He has wasted too much time getting all that armour off. ‘You better hang in there,’ he sternly tells the still unconscious warrior, ‘I am risking everything on you.’</p><p>There is no bite to his words, though. Only worry.</p><p> </p><p>By the time Bard docks his raft, the moon has appeared and disappeared thrice behind dark clouds. While it is too dark for his eyes to distinguish any colours, he can smell that a storm is close. His fingers are tingling with the pent-up electricity in the clouds.</p><p>It is a small mercy that the Master isn’t waiting upon him. If he’d put a wager, he would say the man is drunk in his shack.</p><p>And that suits him perfectly fine.</p><p>In between the many drunks, he doesn’t stand out too much as he half-drags, half-lifts the elf back home. Only the elf’s attire and his glowing hair betrays where he’s from, but the men he passes don’t look like they’ll remember much of anything on the morrow.</p><p>Which also suits him perfectly well.</p><p>The cobblestones are covered in filth, making him step over and again in substances he’d rather not know what they are. The odour isn’t pleasant either, as the frigid winter air is preventing the noxious coal fumes that puff out of the chimneys to escape the valley. Bard coughs, looks at the elf’s worryingly pale face and speeds up.</p><p>If it’s the last thing he does in this wretched town he will ensure that this elf gets returned safe and whole to his home.</p><p>As if she sensed him coming, Sigrid is waiting for her father in the doorway. When she sees him dragging the nearly unconscious elf her eyes widen and she hurries to assist him. ‘What happened, Da?’ she asks, careful not to speak too loudly.</p><p>‘I will tell you in a minute, first we need to get him inside.’</p><p>They do just that, lowering the elf on the bed of hay in the corner of the tiny house. After ensuring that the door is locked, Bards sighs in exhaustion. Rubbing his eyes, he takes a few fortifying breaths.</p><p>The real work is about to start.</p><p>‘Alright, Tilda, Bain I need clean towels, water and whatever brandy we have still left. Sigrid, please start boiling water and chopping some kingsfoil. I have a feeling our guest is going to be needing it.’ As his household explodes into a flurry of activity, the man himself starts to strip the elf of his garments.</p><p>The elf doesn’t react, seemingly having given in to exhaustion himself.</p><p>With water that was still beside the fireplace, he cleans most of the grime and blood both red and black from the elf’s skin. He is pleased to see that the wounds don’t appear too severe. There are numerous cuts and scrapes and bruises as he expected, and only one wound that is a cause of concern. Deep within the elf’s shoulder is a broken arrow shaft.</p><p>From an experience best forgotten, Bard knows the point is likely to be barbed. Stopped by the shoulder blade as it is, however, he can hardly push it through. Tilda is the first to return, arms full of towels and clean cloth. ‘Thank you, darling,’ he says, ‘Do you think you are a big enough girl to grab me a knife?’</p><p>The little girl nods with firm determination. She goes to retrieve it when her father’s voice stops her.</p><p>‘Remember to grab it only at the handle and keep the point away from yourself.’</p><p>She looks back, a silly smile on her lips. ‘Yes, Da, I know how to hold a knife. I do help Sigrid with the cooking now, remember?’</p><p>A small smile curls his lips. ‘I know, Princess.’</p><p>Bain is the second to return, bringing more clean water and a bottle of brandy that’s filled to three quarters. He kneels besides the elf, face full of wonder and earnest desire to help. ‘What do you need me to do?’</p><p>‘Help me clear the last of the grime. Make sure all those cuts are thoroughly cleaned’, Bard says. When his youngest returns with the knife, the bargeman soaks it with brandy and goes to put it in the flames. ‘With that arrow likely poisoned, I don’t want any other wounds to get infected.’</p><p>Even if he doesn’t know much about healing, he knows intimately enough that infection will mean nought but pain, misery, and death.</p><p>With the knife disinfected, Bard takes a moment to scratch the back of his head. His eyes take in the gory arrow-wound, mouth pulled into a grim line. This is the moment where he will prove whether he has some affinity to the art of healing.</p><p>Sigrid returns with neatly cut kingsfoil just when her father manages to wrestle the arrow out of the elf’s shoulder. He uses part of the hot water she brought to clean the wound from within. It draws a moan from the elf, who now seems to be vaguely conscious, though not aware of what is happening around him.</p><p> He finds himself apologising, muttering: ‘Just a little while, I’m almost done.’ While he knows that is not fully true, it achieves his goal, and the elf settles back into his state of half-consciousness. Bard then mixes the kingsfoil with water to create a paste that he smears over the frayed edges of skin. The slight greyish tint to it concerns him.</p><p>Grateful for his eldest’s help with bandaging all the hurts, he can finally consider the most time sensitive work to be finished. He takes a moment to watch Sigrid pull long strands of hair into her hands. His daughter’s face is curiously blank as she starts to braid it, a concern he brushes off for later contemplation.</p><p>Hovering nearby is Tilda, yawning and rubbing her eyes. Bain, too, Bard can see is tired, though the boy does an admirable job at hiding it. ‘Alright, everyone, it’s time for bed.’ He can’t deny that he feels similarly knackered; the knowledge that the sun will be rising early again doesn’t make him overly happy.</p><p>He goes quickly through their evening ritual, glad for Sigrid’s foresight to dress her siblings into their sleepwear before he’d returned. After making sure he kissed all his children goodnight, the bargeman finally goes horizontal himself, lying down on the wooden flooring beside the elf.</p><p>There he twists and turns, unable to find the rest his body craves. Bard checks upon the elf several times, happy to see that his fever is not increasing. In the box-bed his children sleep soundly, tangled together in a pile of arms and legs and bodies.</p><p>Suddenly, he feels compelled to go to the shuttered window. He stares into the darkness for a long while, only faintly able to see hints of the street. The eerie sensation of being watched creeps over him. It is a menacing presence, evil and ominous.</p><p>It makes him feel ill.</p><p>Checking the locks, he gets out his dagger and prepares for a long watch. Tired he may be, he values the lives of his children too much to risk letting the spawn of Sauron in.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which there is a giant kitten and also a fire. Maybe Bard can still keep his elf guest a secret?</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Bard wakes with a start; then freezes. He’s lying half on top of his injured charge, his face smooched up against the elf’s chest with no idea when he fell asleep nor how he came to be so close to the other. With them on the ground is Tilda, sitting cross-legged with an expression of pure delight. ‘Good morning, Princess,’ he says, yawning as he mirrors her pose, ‘Slept well?’</p><p>Tilda nods so fast she almost topples backwards. She catches herself just in time though, saying: ‘You look like you did too, daddy.’ And wow, does that turn his cheeks red fast. If he’d hadn’t known better, there would for sure be a stern talk with the girl’s overworked teacher.</p><p>‘I…’ He isn’t quite sure what to say, so having his daughter start to prattle about their neighbour’s cat’s kittens that sneaked—flew?—in, is distracting enough from the actual issue he isn’t ready to confront yet. After listening to her for about five minutes, and not having become any the wiser, he interrupts her. ‘Wait a minute, Love. Where is that kitten now? We don’t want Mister Woodworth to freak out now, do we?’</p><p>The girl purses her lips. ‘Well…’ she says, shifting around, ‘He kind of—’</p><p>Bard gives her the look.</p><p>‘I tried to turn him back just as you taught me with the bird, but it didn’t work as planned.’ She is rubbing her hand behind her neck and how didn’t he notice the giant cat in the house? He’d really must’ve been very tired.</p><p>With a groan, Bard starts to rub his face. ‘What did I tell you about doing magic unsupervised, Tilda?’</p><p>She looks at him with a sheepish smile: ‘Not to?’</p><p>‘Exactly.’ The man heaves a sigh. ‘Not until you’re at least Sigrid’s age and have passed my test.’ Now the challenge is to turn the cat back to its original size. It’s a real pity that his eldest has already left for the day for this is the kind of magic that Bard is awful at.</p><p>Not that he’d admit that to Tilda. He selfishly wants to keep her adoring gaze a little while longer.</p><p>Having overheard them talking, the giant cat comes lumbering towards them. It is a strange sight to have it be bigger than the biggest bear Bard has seen, but have it miaow just like one would expect a kitten to miaow. He watches Tilda hold out her hand and the cat lick it. ‘At least it’s friendly’, he says.</p><p>‘Of course it is! The way to anyone’s heart is through its stomach and I gave it a fish I caught myself.’ The little girl sounds more than proud of that small fact.</p><p>‘How did you—’ He just shakes his head. There are some things that are better for him to not know.</p><p>The cat walks in circles around itself about five times before it flops down onto the ground. It sniffles at the still unconscious elf, before licking him too. Then, as cats are wont to do, it promptly lays down its head and falls asleep.</p><p>‘Alright,’ Bard says, ‘I suppose we can have it stay there until we can turn it back.’ He sighs, looking at how his son walks through the front door. The boy’s hair is a mess, his cheeks red from the cold. He is glad to see that he’s already dressed and mostly ready for school. It will be the last year before his boy must find a job, and they’re both dreading it for drastically different reasons.</p><p>After making double sure that the cat won’t eat the elf or otherwise cause him any undue harm, Bard carefully closes all the latches of the windows and barricades the front door. Tilda and Bain follow him like little ducklings until they’re both safely delivered at school. Now he just—</p><p>And naturally, the Master is there. For someone so hell-bent on gambling and drinking away all the town taxes in his ‘stately’ manor, he does seem rather obsessed with monitoring Bard’s every move.</p><p>It’s starting to become a genuine problem.</p><p>‘I—didn’t see you there. I am terribly sorry.’ Bard says, convinced he doesn’t look sorry at all. ‘Can I be of any assistance?’ He prays the answer is no, but of course he isn’t that lucky.</p><p>That would’ve been too easy.</p><p>‘You most certainly can.’ The man’s voice is slimy enough to cause shivers to roll down Bard’s back. His cronies stand him with the sole purpose of looking mean and intimidating. It never does impress the bargeman, as he knows they’re too afraid to do anything if he were to meet them alone. Oblivious to this, Alfrid continues: ‘I sent you off to get some barrels from the Elvenking but have for some reason not seen them delivered on my doorstep.’</p><p>Bard winces. It’s clear he must’ve forgotten to unload the raft after treating his elven rescue. ‘I am terribly sorry,’ he says, ‘I had a family emergency and failed to return after dealing with it.’</p><p>The other doesn’t look convinced. ‘I don’t much care for your family emergencies, Bowman.’ He spits the last name like a taunt. ‘You are already on your last chance here. Any misstep and the unnaturalness of your children will be divulged to our God-loving people.’</p><p>Which would be a sure death sentence and they both know it.</p><p>‘Say I would obtain a load of the Elvenking’s finest wines free of charge, would that be sufficient to forget this terrible mistake?’ It is costing him inhuman effort to stay civilised. The energy in his core is churning, threatening to erupt if he doesn’t calm himself quickly.</p><p>The Master puts on a thoughtful face. It is badly played—the greed in his eyes is a tell all, but it’s his only saving grace. ‘You have two days.’ Alfrid then stalks off with the air of someone that thinks he’s super important.</p><p>Bard watches him go. How they haven’t removed the man from his post still mystifies him. Not wanting to hang around to get accosted by even more people, however, he hurries home. Inside, a brief look around confirms that the cat is still sleeping.</p><p>The elf, however, isn’t.</p><p>He says something in Elvish, making the words sound like a beautiful music melody though utterly incomprehensible. Not knowing quite what to say, Bard is left with the most intelligent words: ‘Could… you repeat that?’</p><p>‘Who are you?’ Now his guest is talking in Westron, though the words are spoken with a heavy accent. ‘And what am I being crushed with?’ He is petting the cat’s fur, much to the delight of the purring animal.</p><p>Coming closer, Bard sees that the elf’s eyes are a beautiful, electric blue. They are both focused on the cat that’s draped over him as somehow similarly looking through it. ‘It’s a kitten.’ He scratches the back of his neck from awkwardness. Despite having known this moment would be coming, he is solely unprepared for it.</p><p>‘It’s quite a big cat.’ His eyes flicker over to him.</p><p>The bargeman finds himself stunned, a little uncomfortable by the piercing gaze that seems to stare right into his soul. ‘Yes… That would be a courtesy from my daughter. A little mishap that’s all.’ The awkwardness is almost tangible. ‘Do you want me to push it away?’</p><p>He is panicking inside. The elf is an utter stranger, and he has already let his biggest secret slip. The moment he gets the chance he’ll have to gather his potion supplies.</p><p>‘Not at all. It’s really sweet.’</p><p>With his panicking moment over, Bard notices something else. There are at least half a dozen mice sleeping against his guest. Is this some weird elven mojo?</p><p>Either not noticing Bard’s whirring thoughts or not caring about them, the elf continues: ‘I didn’t know that humans still possessed magic.’</p><p>Bard doesn’t try to suppress his curse.</p><p>‘You must be truly noble in heart and spirit to manipulate the currents. My name is Thranduil.’ He closes his eyes, perspiration lining his brow. ‘What happened?’</p><p>Feeling stupid to be the only one standing, Bard goes to sit down. ‘I can only tell you how I found you—’ He hesitates how to address him and decides to not say anything. ‘My name is Bard, by the way. I am the bargeman from Laketown. A tree blocked my way, and it was by chance that I heard an animal in distress.’  He presses his lips close together. ‘I followed the sound and found a battlefield. You were the only survivor together with an elk.’</p><p>His eyes widen, though don’t seem to focus. Breathing hitching, a tear beads up and rolls down his cheek. Thranduil opens his mouth as if to say something, but no sound comes out.</p><p>Wanting to comfort him, Bard leans closer and presses his hand on the elf’s shoulder. ‘I am so sorry for your loss.’</p><p>Thranduil gives a stiff nod. The mice wake up, making little squeaking sounds as they press their little noses against his palm. He cradles them, stroking one mouse’s head with his thumb. ‘I must get back. My children will be worried sick.’</p><p>A fierce determination appears in his eyes. ‘I must get on the bottom of this attack.’ He makes to sit up but sinks back with a pained grunt before Bard has the chance to push him.</p><p>‘Please remain horizontal. You were struck by a poisoned arrow.’ The elf’s face has if possible gotten even paler. If he’s not careful, he will faint and that is something Bard desperately wants to prevent. His forgetfulness has put increased attention on him. Even the slightest perceived misstep and he’ll be due for a house call by Alfrid’s heavily armed cronies.</p><p>A shudder rolls through him as he is reminded of the last time that happened. His wife’s pained face…</p><p>‘Calm, child,’ the elf’s soothing voice breaks through the memory, ‘All will become well.’</p><p>‘You don’t know that.’ Bard doesn’t want to sound as petulant as he does, but the stress of the past few weeks is starting to get to him. Something evil is brewing that is steadily affecting the people within Laketown. The attention that is drawn to his children far more than he feels comfortable with.</p><p>Thranduil doesn’t seem phased. ‘You speak the truth, of course. However, I do know from experience that there will always be an end to the suffering.’ A shadow falls over his face, but it’s gone so fast that Bard is starting to think he imagined it.</p><p>When the elf speaks again, he sounds sure and in control. ‘Injured or not I must get back to the palace.’ His right hand plays with one of the rings on his left hand. ‘I fear that there are dark times ahead.’</p><p>Those words cause a shiver to run Bard’s back as he’s reminded of the feeling of maliciousness from the night before. He involuntarily tenses. ‘You’ve felt it too.’</p><p>The other nods. ‘Can I trust you to help me get back?’</p><p>The question feels like it implies a lot more than that, and it gives him pause. Bard is about to respond when a loud crash outside makes them jump. There is a scream and he’s on his feet before he knows it. He runs straight into a cloud of smoke. It smells like burning wood, with the sickening stench of burning flesh.</p><p>It makes him gag.</p><p>Someone knocks into him, and it’s through luck alone that he doesn’t fall. There are more screams now. A male is fervently praying, while a woman smacks him on the head. She turns to point at him screaming: ‘Get that thrice-damned water!’</p><p>Bard gapes at her. How did this escalate so quickly? What is even going on here? He’s so confused that he’s frozen where he stands until she is right in his face smacking him too. ‘If you want to have a home after this, you better start pumping water.’</p><p>At a loss of what else to do, he runs inside his home to get a bucket. Inside, he sees that Thranduil has gotten onto his feet, but he’s clutching his side and gasping for breath. The elf is leaning so heavily on the giant cat that he might as well lay down on it.</p><p>‘What is going on? What’s on fire?’ He sounds panicked, his eyes darting around without seemingly seeing anything.</p><p>It is then that Bard gives pause. His hands and legs are shaking from the rush of adrenaline in his body, but he feels stupefied with his realisation. ‘You’re blind.’</p><p>‘That I am.’ Thranduil pets the cat, closing his eyes before pressing his face against its red fur. He looks like he might faint any second.</p><p>Then the strangest thing happens: the animal sinks through its paws looking at Bard with unnatural intelligence. Understanding what it wants, Bard hurries to comply. He grabs the dirtied cloak from the night before and throws it on the elf, helping him up to sit on the cats back.</p><p>‘Only flee when there is no other choice. I hope we can contain this fire, but if that fails, I will come get you.’ Laughter bubbles up in his chest from the sheer madness of the situation, and he finds himself thanking his daughter for somehow finding the power to turn the kitten into its current state.</p><p>At least they’ve got that going for them.</p><p>Taking one last look at the scene, Bard grabs his bucket and darts out of the house. There is still hope he can keep this a secret.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sorry for the two-week wait, in between a hectic start to my new study and a stubborn scene in this chapter that I am still not quite happy with, the days just went by too fast. I do hope you like this insight into how Thranduil's children are dealing with his disappearance though :) </p><p>You also might have noticed that this is now the third chapter instead of the second. When writing the actual third chapter, I found that it would be better to switch these two around. So if you haven't read that chapter yet I would recommend you do it now :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Annûndir’s hand trembles as he picks up his father’s broken crown. The twigs have snapped, the red berries lying crushed in the snow, staining it red from where a foot smashed them. ‘Muindor,’ he says, his voice trembling as he holds the object for his brother to see, ‘He was with them.’</p><p>Thranduil’s eldest takes in the carnage, feeling deep terror grip his heart. It is as if his all worst fears are coming true. ‘We must send out all the scouts that we have available. Eru knows where that filth has taken him.’ He looks back at the broken branches in his hands, praying that his father is safe.</p><p>He can’t lose him like he lost his mother.</p><p>Legolas jumps onto the ground from a tree branch. His lips are pressed together in a firm line. ‘There are footsteps leading from here to the river,’ he says, ‘I’ve tried to trace them, but it seems that whoever made them travelled over the river.’</p><p>‘The footsteps belong to mankind’, a solemn looking Feren injects. The lord of the Silvan tribes is still dressed in his court garb. His hand is on his sword, a long, curved blade in the style of his people. Absently he pats the elk, saying: ‘Tiror walked with this person, which gives me some hope. I believe we must go to Laketown.’</p><p>His eyes meet Annûndir’s. ‘Whoever came here might be able to tell us what happened.’</p><p>The crown prince nods jerkily. He walks towards Tiror, placing his head against the elk’s. For a second he stands there, not speaking. Then he sighs. ‘Alright.’ At once the Mahtar raise to attention. Their faces are grave, determined. They’re all warriors he’s proud of. ‘Baranaer, Tauriel and Harnedir,’ he commands, ‘I want you to accompany Legolas to Laketown.’</p><p>His face turns to a tall elleth. Her black hair is twisted into a simple braid, a circlet resting on her brow. On her back she wears a mighty bow, elaborately carved by the skilled hands of lord Ûrion. ‘Hîril Mírdes, I would ask you to accompany me,’ he says, his voice getting a sharp edge, ‘I will be needing your skills in interrogation.’</p><p>She bows her head, face grim as she motions for the eleven Mahtar under her command to stay alert. ‘Whatever you need, caun nîn.’</p><p>Annûndir watches his youngest brother leave, the three other elves right on his heels. His eyes meet Feren’s and wordless understanding passes between them. Only when the Silvan lord has left with his own legion of Mahtar, the prince takes to the trees. ‘A party of yrch was spotted not three miles from here. I’m hoping there are some we can catch alive.’</p><p>‘If they have our aran they will be more than happy to brag about it.’ Mírdes’ statement is a bitter truth; one that makes him grimace. His stomach is tied in all sorts of knots, and it is only due to his friend’s calmness that he can keep his panic under control. As they run through the canopy, he keeps a tight grip on his father’s crown.</p><p>
  <em>I am coming ada, please hold on just a little longer.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Stuck in the Elvenking’s Halls, princess Calaeriel can do nought but pace. Out of the three siblings, she is known as the most level-headed. The rare time her father is away on business, it is she who is entrusted with the care of the Halls and the wrangling of the court. Where her brothers keep watch over the kingdom’s defences and handle outer-hall duties, it is she that is best suited for the vicious game that is elven politics.</p><p>Normally, she is happy enough in that role. All these under-the-table games is where she thrives. Fighting and violence has never held an appeal to her, but now she wishes it had. From her father’s workroom in the heart of the palace, she feels utterly powerless in his safe retrieval.</p><p>She hates it.</p><p>To make matters even worse, she has never been more unsure of her standing within the palace. The court has been uneasy even before the king’s departure, and she can’t help the traitorous thought that her father’s disaster wrought journey is connected to it. Ready to scream and tear her hair out, her pacing is abruptly interrupted by knocking on the door. Giving the elf leave to enter, Calaeriel is faced by an out of breath messenger.</p><p>‘Aranel,’ he pants as he drops into a bow, ‘Hîr Feren has been sighted.’ His grave face feels like an unwanted ice bath.</p><p>Straightening her back and ignoring the way fear is gripping her throat, the princess tries her best to keep her voice steady. ‘And?’</p><p>The messenger swallows. ‘He… doesn’t look happy. The cauns aren’t with him, nor is hîril Mírdes.’ He visibly steels himself. ‘I have also been ordered to inform you that the lady Gwedhedis will be celebrating her naming day with a big ball in a fortnight. She is insistent that the royal family be present to it.’</p><p>Calaeriel curses. She really, desperately, doesn’t want to deal with her now. ‘Tell her we would be honoured to attend.’ A slight panic is rising within her. For so long as she doesn’t know what has happened to her father, she cannot inform the court. Having the Elvenking missing now would be a sure way to topple them over the edge of the cliff they’ve been balancing on.</p><p>When the messenger starts to make his leave, she halts him. ‘No matter what Gwedhedis says or tries, she must not know about this. I will inform the court when I deem fit.’ Only after his firm salute does she let him go.</p><p>When she herself leaves the chamber, she is pleased to only see her personal guard stationed outside. Breaking into a run, the princess quietly slips into the servant’s pathways after a sharp turn to the left. She has only one near collision before she steps out in the main entrance halls. Like she’d expected, the doors are wide open with armoured guards lining the walkway to the bridge.</p><p>On the bridge stands Galion, a brother to her father in all but blood. He bows his head when she stops beside him. ‘I have a bad feeling about this,’ Calaeriel whispers, playing with her sapphire ring, ‘There is evil in the air.’</p><p>‘I feel it too.’ The elf’s voice is even softer than her own, forcing her to strain her ears to not miss it. He’s as tense as a bowstring, hands fidgeting with his robe in a manner that is highly out of character for him. ‘The forest has gotten darker and I worry what it means.’</p><p>The wait is agonising. By the time Feren finally dismounts in front of them, she is jittery with nerves. Her heart is racing, and she is out of breath despite not having moved an inch. Looking unhappy is a massive understatement, and they trail his furious pace in silence. It is only when they are in the privacy of the king’s study that he finally stops. His trembling hand traces the worn wood.</p><p>Both Calaeriel as Galion are too afraid to ask.</p><p>Thankfully, Feren keeps them from voicing it. ‘He was ambushed.’</p><p>An involuntary sob escapes her.</p><p>‘None of his guards survived, but we believe the king to have either escaped or been captured. Tiror’s behaviour makes me believe it to be the former, but your brothers are now working to find that out.’ He gives an encouraging smile as he gently squeezes the princess’ shoulder. ‘I am confident they will find him.’</p><p>Calaeriel isn’t sure whether she feels that same confidence, reeling with the shock of the news as she is. Still, she nods determinedly. They will succeed, they must.</p><p>They are disturbed once again by a messenger. The elf looks apologetic, sheepish almost. ‘I express my deepest regrets, but—’ He doesn’t have to speak for her to know what duties call her. Rubbing her eyes, the princess sighs. It seems like she has a court appearance to make.</p><p> </p><p>Miles away from his sister, Annûndir is crouched on a branch. He is eyeing a party of orcs, giving orders by hand motions for the others to take their positions. There are about forty orcs and a dozen wargs, making it a moderately sized party that is small enough numerically for the odds to be in their favour.</p><p>What worries him is how distracted the orcs seem. Something has caused them to be nervous, on their guard. Their weapons are out; the wargs saddled and ready for battle. They must capture at least one of them alive, else risk losing vital information about what exactly is going on in these poisoned parts of their kingdom.</p><p>The elf checks whether the others are in place and ready. Then, he raises his hand. Counting down, he leaps from the canopy screaming: ‘For Eryn ‘Galen!’</p><p>His knives take out two orcs the moment he touches down. Arrows fly around his ears, their archers taking down half a dozen of orcs in mere seconds. Throwing his dagger, he prevents an orc from mounting a warg. The brute falls off, but the beast’s leash has been cut. Annûndir blocks snarling teeth with his twin swords, but his arms tremble from holding the weight back.</p><p>An arrow pierces the warg’s eyes. The colour of the arrow is yellow. Mírdes.</p><p>‘Do keep yourself alive, caun nîn!’ she laughs, jumping down from where she was perched to join the fight on the ground.</p><p>They are making fast work of taking down the orcs. To his right, Maeron takes down the last warg, leaving only about nine orcs. Despite the elf’s young age, his battle prowess is impressive. Adding him to the guard was a smart choice.</p><p>The blood has made the ground slippery. For all their grace, the prince nearly falls flat on his face when his foot slips. He curses but regains his stance in time to gut an opportunistic orc. With less than a dozen left, he shouts: ‘Do not kill! Incapacitate them!’</p><p>They aren’t very successful. Only one orc survives the ambush, getting knocked out by Mírdes. Five warriors surround him, tight knots of rope binding his hands and feet. When Annûndir stops in front of the creature, it spits a blob of black blood at him. ‘Well,’ he says, neatly side-stepping the fluid, ‘I am sure you are ecstatic to answer some questions we had.’</p><p>The orc doesn’t speak.</p><p>‘You know,’ he says conversationally, ‘I have a lady here who has some… grievances towards your kind.’ Said lady makes a show of cleaning her blood-drenched blades. ‘Really, there are one of two ways this is going to go, and you know your options.’</p><p>Still, the orc doesn’t speak. This time though, the nerves of before seem to have returned. Its eyes flit back and forth, searching. But, when it doesn’t find anything, it relaxes.</p><p>The prince steps back, letting Mírdes slip in his place. She gives their prisoner a smile, but it is cold enough to freeze a volcano. ‘I think we are long overdue for a conversation.’</p><p>Her tactics seem to be unnecessary. The orc smirks. It chuckles—the sound like glass being crushed. Turning to him, its words chill him more than any ice bath ever could. Bloodstained lips spit with glee: ‘A new servant has risen. Once it is done with your precious father, you’d wished he’d been in our hands.’</p><p>Annûndir staggers back, his legs no longer having the strength to support him. With brutal efficiency, Mírdes guts the beast, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder. ‘We return to the halls, caun Legolas will be successful in his mission.’</p><p>Not having the strength to protest, he allows the elleth to draw him away from the site. He can only pray that his brother finds their father.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Below I’ve included an Elvish glossary of the phrases I used. It’s not all going to be correct Elvish, but it shouldn’t take too much of the fun away ;)</p><p>Elvish Glossary:<br/>caun nîn: my prince (formal)<br/>aranel: princess<br/>elleth/ellyth: female elf/elves<br/>ellon/ellyn: male elf/elves<br/>Eru: Eru Ilúvatar, the God/Creator of Middle Earth<br/>hîr/hîril: lord/lady<br/>Mahtar: elite warriors of king Thranduil<br/>Muindor: brother<br/>yrch: orcs</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>While the fire does get quenched without the need to evacuate his elven guest, it also claims most of Bard’s day, leaving him desperately short on time to miraculously fulfil Alfrid’s ultimatum. It hangs above him like a death sentence—an axe waiting to cleave his head clean from his shoulder. Two days were barely enough to make it all the way to the Elvenking’s Halls and back as it is, which was already excluding the very real possibility of fallen trees and other, nastier, obstacles. </p><p>Downtrodden, he trudges home in the incoming dusk. He’s soaked to the bone with a mixture of soot and mud, his muscles aching from the endless stream of buckets he’d had to throw at the flames. The street is even more of a mess than it normally is, but for once he couldn’t care less. Even old lady Myrtha bringing him a fragrant loaf of bread from thanks doesn’t lift his spirits. </p><p>Walking over the doorstep, he goes straight to the only chair he has. The elf is still on top of the cat, though both seem to have fallen asleep. Rubbing his eyes, he watches as the cat opens one green eye, blinking slowly at him before walking over. It is careful not to dislodge the slumbering elf as it goes to lie down next to him, purring and giving him some much-needed comfort.</p><p>Bard pets it, a small smile appearing on his lips. His mind wanders, his worries tying his stomach into knots. The bargeman sits on that chair until the last of the light leaves the town. His eyes have become heavy—the air chilly. He can’t bring himself to light a fire.</p><p>When the door opens, he doesn’t have to ask who is there. Tilda runs towards him, jumping into his lap and hugging him. Bain and Sigrid follow her at a more sedate pace, but he can see the worry in their eyes. ‘We sheltered at Lucy’s for a bit,’ Sigrid explains, ‘Her mom didn’t want to let us go home while the fire still raged.’</p><p>‘That’s good. I’m glad she let you stay.’ He ruffles Tilda’s hair, but has difficulties to put a smile on his face. The deal has made him tense and he realises that there’s no way he can hide that from his children.</p><p>‘What’s wrong, daddy?’ Tilda asks.</p><p>Sigrid and Bain look at him with expressions that ask the exact same.</p><p>With a heavy sigh, he hugs his youngest close. ‘It’s about the promise I made to the Master.’</p><p>His son’s eyes widen with realisation, but Sigrid just looks confused. ‘You won’t be able to get the wine in time for his deadline, will you?’ He turns to his sister and explains: ‘We ran into him when going to school. He was cross that Da forgot to unload the barrels. Now we only have one more day to get free wine from the Elvenking.’</p><p>‘You will never be able to pull that off,’ Sigrid says, ‘Especially not with just a day remaining.’ She looks upset. Bard knows she has come to the same conclusion as himself. Her gaze locks on the stirring elf. </p><p>Surprisingly, she doesn’t question the presence of the giant cat.</p><p>‘I have only briefly gotten the chance to speak with him. The fire interrupted us.’ Bard gently pushes Tilda off his lap. He stands up, walking towards his guest and laying a hand on the elf’s shoulder.</p><p>The other’s eyes flutter open and they are just as electric as the previous time he opened them. ‘Am I correct in that the fire has been quenched?’ he asks. His eyes dart around the room, locking at the approximate place where Tilda stands.</p><p>‘You are the one that turned this cat into a giant,’ he says, a big smile on his lips, ‘You’re very talented.’ His genuineness makes her puff her chest in pride. Then he frowns, asking: ‘What has you so worried?’</p><p>‘Our most honourable Master’, Bain grumbles.</p><p>Sigrid injects: ‘We might as well go to pack our stuff. There’s no way we will be able to remain here.’ It is painful to see the defeat in the hunched set of her shoulders. When they’d settled here, Bard had prayed that they would be able to remain and be happy.</p><p>Alas, it seems the lady Fate has different plans.</p><p>All of the sudden the same feeling of being watched creeps over him. From the perking of Thranduil’s ears, he deduces that he has noticed the same. He hears the elf say something in Elvish that sounds like a curse.</p><p>‘We don’t have any time to lose,’ his tone demands no argument, ‘We must make way to the Elvenking’s Halls. I will ensure they will welcome you as kin.’</p><p>The faint, fearful tone is causing a shiver to run down Bard’s spine. Something is deeply wrong here, and it involves his family. ‘Let us grab some essentials,’ he says, ‘We will depart within the hour.’</p><p>‘Da?’ Tilda grasps his sleeve, ‘What is going on?’</p><p>Bard gazes down at his daughter. He tries to smile at her, but it is unnatural and forced. ‘I will explain once we are safely on our way, Sweetling.’ He gently squeezes the little girl’s shoulder. Locking his gaze with his eldest, he feels both proud at the determination in her eyes as sad that it has come to this. ‘Pack only that which cannot be replaced.’</p><p>The household explodes in a flurry of movement. The only one not moving is Thranduil, who has closed his eyes and switched to muttering an Elvish chant. Once done, he slumps forward, panting harshly. Although Bard vaguely notices this happening, he is too busy strapping a linen bag onto his back. </p><p>The elf doesn’t stir when they have finished, and thus Bard covers him with the hood of his cloak. Putting a tight grip around his amulet, he places Tilda behind the unconscious elf and signals the other two to follow him.</p><p>It feels highly suspicious that no-one seems to notice them while they weave their way over uneven cobbles and wooden decks to his barge. For people willing to throw stones at them for an accidental change of hair colour, a cat the height of a horse miraculously seems acceptable.</p><p>This must be the elf’s doing.</p><p>Once on his barge, Bard makes sure to secure his precious cargo before disembarking. The winds aren’t favourable at this time of day, making the trip over the lake exhausting. His muscles scream at him for rest, but he knows that if he does so, his children will be at the mercy of the town’s cruel residents.</p><p>No, he must make it to the river.</p><p>That which he dreaded has come to pass. Only a mile in and they find the river blocked by a fallen oak. Bard curses, making Tilda inadvertently giggle. </p><p>‘What do we do now, Da?’ Bain gives a skeptical look at the thick trunk. ‘There’s no way we will be able to move that, and I highly doubt lifting the barge out of the water is feasible.’</p><p>And indeed, the embankments of the river resemble the steep cliffs from the place he was birthed. Bard sighs. ‘You are correct. The only option I see—’</p><p>‘Is going back and abandoning the barge,’ Sigrid completes his thought, ‘We must continue on foot.’</p><p>The bargeman nods.</p><p>The cat’s jostling as it clambers onto solid ground is enough to rouse the elf. ‘Good,’ he says once he has gathered his bearing, ‘I see my illusion worked.’ Looking at the fading daylight, he grimaces. ‘The forest is dangerous in the dark, especially to those unfamiliar with its ways. I will lead the way, but you must be careful to not let yourself be distracted.’</p><p>Something seems to grab his attention, but he shakes it off. ‘There are ancient enchantments on these woods to deter visitors with ill intentions, and though I know your hearts are true and pure, I don’t want to take risks.’</p><p>Bard can find himself in that.</p><p>‘Do you have ropes?’ It wouldn’t be a good barge if they hadn’t. ‘It would be good for you to be tied to me. That way, the spirits in the forest cannot tempt you from our path.’</p><p>Feeling extremely glad to have the elf on his side, Bard rushes to ensure his children are safely tied to Thranduil, before repeating it on himself. With the ropes and their belongings in place, he says: ‘We are ready.’</p><p>The deeper they journey into the woods, the more he starts to understand Thranduil’s warning. Already the spirits managed to nearly snatch Tilda. Only the elf’s quick reflexes saved her. His secure hold on the little girl has eased Bard’s worries for his daughter somewhat but increased them for his other two children. </p><p>A hundred disembodied whispers between the trees try to lure them away. They made him walk as close as possible to their elven guide and led him to keep a tight grip on Sigrid and Bain’s hands. He will not lose them.</p><p>As they trudge on through the mossy underground, the last of the daylight fades away. He knows it is a full moon, but the planet’s waxy light cannot reach through the dense canopy. </p><p>The feeling of being watched returns.</p><p>Every rustle and creaking sounds make his heart leap into his throat. His hand itches to grab the pommel of his hunting knife, but one warning from Thranduil makes him refrain.</p><p>The spirits don’t like being threatened.</p><p>It makes him inwardly huff. He doesn’t like feeling threatened either. Still, he listens to their guide. If anyone can lead them safely through these woods, it is an elf that has lived there for God knows how long.</p><p>A sudden quiet falls. The million insects chirping around them quitting their songs and holding their breaths. Thranduil motions the cat to stop. He seems focused to catch the slightest of sounds, and Bard feels afraid to breath lest he hinders the elf. </p><p>‘We are near a nest of spiders,’ he announces after a while, ‘If we are careful, we can avoid them.’ His voice drops to a nearly inaudible level as he continues: ‘I need you to be very quiet. Whatever you do: don’t make any erratic movements. We shall walk with purpose—swift and steady.’ </p><p>Their pace lowers to a crawl. Every time one of them accidentally steps on a twig, every crushing sound of a leaf beneath their shoes is enough to make Bard flinch. He is re-evaluating the wisdom of fleeing into the cursed forests of Mirkwood. Deep inside he knows he’s being too harsh. The open wastes are just as lethal a place to flee.</p><p>No, this is the right choice. He will keep on telling himself this until the truth of it is confirmed to him.</p><p>In his distraction, Bard fails to lift his foot high enough to step over a tree root. He trips and falls on his knees. His wrists catch the brunt of his fall, making pain flare up in the joints. It is only thanks to biting his lips that he doesn’t cry out.</p><p>Tears of frustration burn behind his eyes as he punishes himself for endangering his children. There is no way the spiders don’t know where they are now.</p><p>Their elven guide seems to realise that too. He slides off the cat, commanding the children to take his place. ‘Give me your knife.’</p><p>Excitable chattering from the spiders surrounds them. Without a word of protest, Bard hands his weapon over, plucking a thick branch from the ground himself. This is a time he desperately wishes he would have had a bow on him.</p><p>A heavy weight rattles the ground before them like a minor earthquake. Blocking their way is the largest spider he has ever seen. Over a hundred luminous eyes blink at them as the creature starts to laugh. </p><p>In what could almost be considered as a purr, the spider says: ‘Am I seeing this right? Is this the Elvenking, all ready for taking?’</p><p>Thranduil glares at her, spitting in her direction. ‘I could say the same to you. It’s been a precious long while since I’ve had the pleasure to gut one of you myself.’</p><p>That only seems to amuse the spider even further. ‘If you’d possessed something other than a blunt stick, I might have believed you. As it is…’ the spider takes a seemingly bold step forward, but Bard isn’t fooled: it is wary, ‘You will die today.’</p><p>His brain has pushed the startling realisation of just who he had been harbouring firmly to the backseat. This isn’t the time. The thin hairs on his neck rise in a silent warning that comes almost too late. </p><p>Twisting around, he lifts the branch against his eight-legged attacker, only to find it promptly snapping in two. Bard curses. Can’t nothing work in their favour?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Unbeknownst to Bard, the moment Thranduil succeeded in rousing himself back into wakefulness, he sent a message to the palace. His beloved trees were more than happy to oblige, ecstatic to learn that he is hale. It brought a smile to his face that only waned the deeper into the corrupted part of the forest they travelled.</p><p>He worries that the calm and confident mask he put on isn’t convincing his young charges. The spirits have grown stronger and bolder, as he soon discovered when they became frighteningly close to snatching bold Tilda from his arms.</p><p>Cradling her close, he prays for his message to have arrived. The poisonous power of Dol Guldur has reached a new level of malice and it is draining his already strained essence.</p><p>It is a cruel joke of luck when they run into a spider nest. Thranduil doesn’t know where his weapons have gone, but this is the one moment he desperately wished he had his twin swords on him. Bard’s hunting knife, while sharp, is unbalanced and forces him to come closer to the spiders than he would’ve wished.</p><p>The elf can hear the bargeman’s struggle behind him, can hear Tilda’s panicked shouts and Sigrid’s desperate attempts to keep her little sister out of the way. How Bain is fairing he cannot determine from sound, causing a stab of fear in his chest. </p><p>Despite only having been with them for such a fleeting time, the odd happy family has grown on him. Children have always been and ever will be precious to elves, and he won’t allow them to get hurt now.</p><p>Nor Bard for that manner.</p><p>Sweat lines his brow, a grimace marring his face. His shoulder is paining him and for every spider he kills, two new ones fill its place. They are getting overwhelmed and it is all he can do to keep himself alive, never mind the others.</p><p>Hearing a cry for help behind him, he instinctively lunges to where he can sense the offending critter. It is far too close a call and he can feel his hope wane. He tilts his head towards the canopy. Where are his people?</p><p> </p><p>They were just leaving the forest behind when the panicked voices of the trees entered Legolas’ head. Signalling for the others to stop, he places his forehead against the nearest tree. ‘Talk to me,’ he orders in a firm tone, ‘Where is my father?’</p><p>A dozen images show the king’s location, and recognising the part they’ve found themselves in, he fails to suppress a curse. Turning to his companions, he says: ‘We must hurry.’ Baranaer motions for him to lead the way, and within seconds they are off.</p><p>Helped by the trees, they make for good time, but not good enough. By the time Legolas jumps down into the clearing, an arrow is knocked on his bow and released, his father has nearly been struck from behind. </p><p>With a furious roar, the prince kills the offending beast.</p><p>Although he is aware of the other two ellon firing arrows in rapid succession—of Tauriel covering his back with her knives, his eyes are only on the kneeling elf before him. The infernal creatures have managed to knock his father down and he won’t stand for that.</p><p>‘Ada!’ he rushes to kneel beside the platinum-haired ellon, ‘are you hurt?’</p><p>Thranduil merely waves him off. ‘I am fine, ion-nîn. The only injuries I bear are from…’ He sighs. ‘I’m sure you know.’ He tries to get up again, but Legolas won’t let him.</p><p>‘Please, I got this handled.’</p><p>That draws a wry smile from the older elf. Seemingly satisfied that the eight-legged terrors are under control, he motions his son to do as he sees fit. He has learned not to argue when his children get into such a mood.</p><p>Without their knowledge, Tilda has overseen the interaction. Beside her fear, the young girl is grinning. She knows this must be one of the sons and he looks mighty cool in her eyes. There will be much fun she will have with them.</p><p>Legolas proves just how much he got the situation handled when he cuts down one spider after the other with ruthless efficiency. Assisted by his three companions, it isn’t long before the nest is clear, and he can properly fuss over his father.</p><p>Said father undergoes the fussing without a word of protest, though does calmly point out that surely, they would all rather catch up in the safety of his halls? </p><p>‘Yes’, Legolas says, though he doesn’t release his hold on the elf—clearly afraid to let him go after he came so close to losing him. He pauses, taking in the giant cat with an incredulous look in his eyes. ‘How?’ his voice trails off.</p><p>‘Later’, the Elvenking says, voice resolute. He makes his way over on touch, stroking the animal’s black fur. </p><p>Bard, unsure of how to hold himself now that four clear warriors have joined them, draws his daughters close, trusting Bain to stick to his side. These elves are scarily protective over his friend, with the one having the command clearly being in some way related to Thranduil.</p><p>As if feeling his hesitation, the older elf speaks up. ‘Bard, bring your children. They shall ride the last leg of our journey; they must be exhausted.’ </p><p>He, himself, looked rather exhausted too, but the bargeman decides that it’s wiser to obey. With the coming of the elves and the defeat of the spiders, a change has taken place inside the elf. It is as if he has slipped into his old role, the one he had before that ill-fated afternoon that Bard found him. It is making him wonder just what his occupation is.</p><p> </p><p>Bard praises himself lucky that the last leg of their journey doesn’t drag on for too long. He is dead on his feet, going through the motions through sheer power of will. Beside him, Thranduil isn’t faring much better, though the elf is better at hiding it. </p><p>He curses when he trips over a stone, grabbing a hold at the nearest object to him and dragging said object with him onto the moss. Sadly for him, it is none other than his still injured elven friend. The glare that earns him from the golden-haired elf makes him cringe away.</p><p>‘It’s alright,’ Thranduil smoothly diffuses the tension, ‘We shouldn’t be long anymore, friend.’ </p><p>And it isn’t.</p><p>Although night has long since fallen and midnight passed, alas the Elvenking’s Halls come into sight. In the darkness, Bard has difficulties distinguishing the giant doors. He meekly follows the cat carrying his children, trying to keep quiet as to not agitate the fussing warrior.</p><p>On the bridge there are a dozen or so elves. Most of them are warriors clad in stately armour lining the entrance, with the other four in more courtly garbs. Legolas has taken his father by the arm and is leading them onto the bridge. The moment Thranduil sets foot onto the stones, two of the elves break from the group and run towards him.</p><p>Bard watches with a smile as the elf opens his arm in a welcoming hug. The two fall into them, though are careful not to topple him over. Seeing the resemblance, he’s sure that he’s seeing the children the other had been talking about.</p><p>The other two elves walk towards the hugging foursome at a more sedate pace, turning to Bard and his family after a long look ensuring that their friend is alright. A tall, black-haired male with a circlet on his hair inclines his head to him. ‘We will be eternally grateful for rescuing our aran.’</p><p>The brown-haired ellon beside him nods in agreement. ‘We welcome you to our home. I am Galion, I’m the aran’s personal aide and in charge of ensuring that his honoured guests have a comfortable stay.’ </p><p>His smile is kind as he gently grabs him by the arm, steering him past the family. Bard lets him do so, wanting them to have some time to properly reunite. Besides, he thinks as he looks at a yawning Bain and sleeping Tilda, they can rather use the sleep.</p><p>Let all the thanking and other stuff come tomorrow.</p><p> </p><p>Where on the outside Bard couldn’t get a good impression of the sheer height and might of the doors providing entrance to the Woodland Realm, the inside more than makes up for it. Nearly falling backwards from tilting his head, he has no control over his gaping expression of awe.</p><p>Stones carved to imitate tree trunks carry the ceiling. Floating fairy lights drift peacefully through the air, somehow managing to keep from bumping into each other. A bridge designed as a gigantic tree root forms the path they are walking over, a roaring river far below them.</p><p>So very far below them.</p><p>Feeling his acrophobia kick in, he clenches his hand tightly into the cat’s long fur. Awed though he might be from the architecture, he’d rather not think about just how high up they are.</p><p>Sigrid’s slender hand slips into his. Looking up, she squeezes his hand with a comforting smile. It feels sacrilegious to speak, but she doesn’t need words for Bard to understand what she wants to say. He will take it one step at a time and put his sole focus on the steady rhythm of his steps and the sureness of the cat’s.</p><p>It isn’t long before he feels hopelessly lost in the vastness of the Elvenking’s Halls. Their way seems to never end, more splendour revealing itself with every twist and turn they make.</p><p>At last their guide stops. He opens a set of intricately carved doors leading them into a suite fit for a king. Feeling rather overwhelmed, Bard doesn’t know what to say except for a breathless: ‘Thank you.’</p><p>Galion seems to understand, however, and for that the bargeman is more than grateful. ‘I will have some servants bring you food,’ he says, ‘Would you like assistance in drawing a bath?’</p><p>‘N-no,’ he stammers, ‘We will manage.’ He severely doubts his capacity to stay awake in the warm water. At the offer for food, his stomach grumbles, making him blush.</p><p>The elf smiles kindly, inclining his head. ‘As you wish.’ He turns to leave the room, but before he closes the doors, he adds: ‘Please take all the time you need to rest and recover. We are in no rush.’</p><p>That makes him smile a little. No, with their long lives he supposes the elves are never in much of a rush. Before Galion can pull the doors shut, Bard rushes to say him a last word of thanks. The moment the lock falls into place, however, he can feel his shoulders slump in exhaustion.</p><p>Sigrid glides off the cat’s back, helping Bain and Tilda down. She looks surprisingly awake, much in contrast to her younger siblings. ‘I’m not going to refuse the offer of food,’ she says as she pets the animal in thanks, ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.’</p><p>Grimacing at her filthy clothes, she adds: ‘And I am going to take that bath.’ She grabs hold of Tilda’s arm and drags the little girl with her to the opened door leading to a bathroom.</p><p>Left with his son, Bard pulls the boy into a hug. ‘I’m sorry we had to leave like that,’ he says, ‘I wanted something better for you.’ Inspecting whether his son isn’t injured, he is glad when Bain stops his fussing in his usual grumbling manner. The small smile on his face confirms that not all is lost.</p><p>‘Honestly, dad, I think this is the best thing that could’ve happened to us.’ He kicks off his shoes, curling up on the soft carpet against the newest addition to their weird family. ‘And though we don’t know what the Elvenking is going to do, I hope we can stay here. At least for a little while.’</p><p>Seeing him so grown up gives Bard a warm glow of pride. Taking place beside him, he breathes: ‘I hope so too.’ His stomach twists anxiously. He wants to finally stop running.</p><p> </p><p>The food that the elves prepare for them is more than he has ever seen the swine Alfrid order to taunt them. It is delicious and filling, and they all relish in the opportunity to fill their stomachs. One cleaning duck in the biggest bathtub he has ever seen, and the family is well and truly ready for sleep.</p><p>With a good night’s kiss, he tucks Bain and Tilda under the warm covers. He ruffles their hair, watching in satisfaction as their faces relax in peaceful sleep. In the background, he sees Sigrid linger, clearly not yet ready to go to be herself.</p><p>Turning, he smiles at her. He walks towards her, not speaking, but instead wrapping an arm around her. Bard leads her to the balcony, absently grabbing a blanket from a chair as they pass it. Only when they are outside does he speak: ‘I am so very proud of you.’</p><p>She ducks her head, keeping her face away from him. It’s a moment he takes to wrap the blanket around her. Rubbing the back of her head, Sigrid merely sighs.</p><p>He draws her into a hug.</p><p>‘How are you feeling under all of this? I find it rather overwhelming.’ He lives by the conviction that if one wants honest answers, one should be honest themselves. Realising that she won’t speak just yet, he softly adds: ‘I don’t know what the day will bring us and feel too afraid to hope.’</p><p>Sigrid tilts her head so that it rests against his shoulder, leaning into his hug. ‘I don’t want to set any expectations.’ Her voice is soft like a whisper. Bard would’ve missed it if he weren’t focusing on her. ‘I suppose I am keeping my mind open. Adapt and conquer, is it not?’</p><p>‘When have you grown so wise?’ he asks teasingly, rubbing slow circles between her shoulder blades. Looking up he can see the moon through the circular gap in the ceiling. Its light illuminates a tiny garden that could come straight from a storybook. A young deer is asleep on a bed of mosses, partially blanketed by the willow branches of the tree at its back.</p><p>‘You’re almost an adult, you know,’ he says, ‘I am not going to resent you for making your own choices. All I want is your happiness, and I know you are more than capable of holding your own.’ His exhaustion is making him overly sentimental, but there is no harm in a little sentimentality every now and again.</p><p>Wrapping her own arms around him, Sigrid worms her way so that her head rests against his chest. ‘Thanks dad.’</p><p>He smiles. His heart has swollen so large with love that it threatens to outgrow his chest. When he realises that she has fallen asleep against him, his smile nearly splits his face in two. Carrying her to a bed, he tucks her in just like he used to do when she was still a carefree toddler.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Elvish Glossary:<br/>aran: king<br/>ellon/ellyn: male elf/elves</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Thranduil feels surprised how emotional having all his children in his arms makes him. Ducking his head against his daughter, he inhales her familiar flowery scent. Annûndir’s hair is still damp and somewhat tangled—like he had a hasty shower before coming here.</p>
<p>As he presses his hand against the elf’s shoulders, he feels the tenseness in the muscles. Deciding not to focus too much on that for now, Thranduil pulls back a bit to look at them. ‘I am so glad to see you’, he says, blinking when his emotions threaten to overcome him.</p>
<p><em>Eru</em>, what has overcome him?</p>
<p>He shivers—a clear sign that he has not yet recovered. ‘Shall we take this inside?’ he asks as he feels the fine hairs on his neck rise. Thranduil tenses as the uncomfortable feeling of being watched creeps up to him. </p>
<p>‘I would much rather talk in the comfort of my room than outside the Halls.’ Gently, but firmly spurring his children to walk, the ominous feeling follows him all the way into the fortress. He only relaxes when the doors of his chambers fall shut, and he knows for certain the mysterious being can’t get to them anymore.</p>
<p>With the doors closed from any curious onlookers, he also doesn’t have to pretend feeling fine when he doesn’t. His children and dearest two friends also do no longer have to hold up a facade. With a sob, Annûndir pulls him close.</p>
<p>The elf buries his head against Thranduil’s neck. ‘I was so scared I lost you!’ he bursts, ‘When I found your crown all smashed up and bloodied, I didn’t know what to think.’</p>
<p>There is more behind that first statement. Frowning slightly as he tries to soothe his eldest’s tears, he is reminded of the last time the prince embraced him so desperately. One he prefers not to think about too much, lest the grief overcomes him.</p>
<p>In a shaky voice, he says: ‘You have to worry no longer.’ He tilts his head to focus on the other four elves, grimacing at how dangerously low his magic-levels feel. ‘We can talk about what you have seen and heard later. For now, we rejoice.’</p>
<p>‘And rest’, Galion sternly says as he clasps a hand on his liege’s shoulder. Seeming to materialise out of nowhere, he gently pries Annûndir’s death grip from him and steers him to his bed. ‘I have already given command to the kitchen for a light meal and for Gwendis to come. We will take no risks with your health.’</p>
<p>He submits himself to the fussing, knowing he would have had the same urge to ensure the other’s alright were their places reversed. Besides, it feels great to lie down on something soft, as only now does his body choose to make its hurts truly felt. </p>
<p>Involuntarily, his eyes droop. Fighting to keep them open, a thought pops up: ‘Are Bard and his children being seen to?’ He attempts to sit upright again, but a firm hand of his youngest blocks it.</p>
<p>‘<em>Ada</em>’, he admonishes with a smile. Sitting down on the bed, Legolas looks over to Galion, while taking his father’s hands in his own.</p>
<p>The elf doesn’t waste any time answering, knowing him through and through. ‘They are being cared for,’ he assures, ‘I saw to it myself just before coming here, and they were doing well. But, like you, they are in dire need of rest.’</p>
<p>‘Good’, Thranduil sighs, the last statement going completely over his head. It is one less thing to worry about, though it doesn’t wholly take away his jittery feelings. In his restlessness, he drums his fingers in the confines of his son’s hands—following the pattern that he heard young Bain tap back in Laketown.</p>
<p>The door opens itself and in comes an elf. The footsteps are light as a feather, inaudible if it weren’t for his sensitive ears. Based on the pattern, calm though swift, he deduces that Gwendis must have arrived—none other would be able to come here without the others speaking up.</p>
<p>The elleth doesn’t waste any time loitering around. She never does—not when she has work to do and it makes him smile. ‘Talk.’</p>
<p>If it were anyone else, he would’ve balked at the direct tone, but instead his smile only widens. Were anyone to describe it would’ve been compared to a satisfied cat that got away unpunished from its misdeeds. It does wonders at chasing away his mysterious nerves. </p>
<p>At a measured tone he responds: ‘A likely poisoned arrow to the shoulder, which Mister Bowman kindly cleaned and bandaged with what I presume to be <em>athelas</em>.’ The dried-out herbs certainly bear its familiar scent, and he felt wretched enough that it is impossible for it to have been a clean wound.</p>
<p>‘Likely a myriad of scrapes and bruises to accompany it,’ he breezily continues, ‘but I feel surprisingly well.’</p>
<p>Gwendis mumbles something under her breath, going to work on peeling the crusted bandages off.</p>
<p>Unable to suppress a wince as she pulls it off, the Elvenking puts his focus on his son’s hands. There is something other than the distinct smell of the herbs and it is a scent that he doesn’t particularly want to come from his own body.</p>
<p>‘It did take away most of the poison,’ she acknowledges as she prods the wound, ‘but it needs more work to truly take away the infection. I assume the bandages haven’t been refreshed after being put on.’</p>
<p>Thranduil grimaces. ‘There wasn’t time.’ The scent of burning wood and faeces is still vivid in his mind, and he can still hear the poor lady’s distraught cries as her house got turned into ash. ‘Though truly, I feel fine now. The worst is behind us now.’ Those words are aimed more at his hovering children.</p>
<p>He can sense from their unchanged positions, that his words didn’t achieve their desired goal.</p>
<p>‘I must find out what caused this attack and who is behind it’, Annûndir bursts as he starts to pace. He is agitated, but so are the others—all except for Gwendis who embodies peace and calmness like she always does.</p>
<p>It makes his own patience shrink, until he can no longer suppress the urge to truly know what is going on. Reaching for his innate magic, he tries to pull at the already strained strands of energy. He is nearly successful in making it do what he wants when his hold slips and the connection snaps.</p>
<p>The backlash hits him straight away.</p>
<p>Heaving, the Elvenking tries to keep the rolling nausea under control. Gwendis’ hands are on him, quickly followed by those of Legolas and Calaeriel. ‘I am fine,’ he bites out, ‘I just need to know what’s going on. No more circling around the subject.’</p>
<p>He is greeted by silence, in which he suspects there is a lot of looking at each other going on between the occupants of the room. Eventually, it is Calaeriel who speaks: ‘I have become aware of traitorous whisperings in our court. Making this ambush feel rather coincidental.’</p>
<p>The elleth is about to say more when a rapid knocking at the door interrupts them. ‘Me and Feren will take care of this,’ Annûndir grits, ‘it is past time anyway that we announce your safe return, <em>adar</em>.’</p>
<p>Thranduil feels conflicted as his son stalks out of the room. He senses the anger and realises that a one-on-one conversation after he’s had the chance to cool down is in order. ‘Wait,’ he calls, thankful that the two ellyn pause to listen, ‘inform them that we shall hold a dinner with all of us.’</p>
<p>If there truly is the threat of revolt, being visible is of critical importance. They have fought too hard to let their realm fall to darkness. Glad at their sounds of acquiescence, he waits for the doors to shut and the footsteps to fall away before speaking up again: ‘You will tell me all about this.’</p>
<p>‘Only after you rest.’ Gwendis’ strict tone doesn’t accept any word of protest. She pats a wet towel on his chest, cleaning the wound before putting a fresh herbal paste on top of it and wrapping it with bandages. ‘You have dangerously depleted your well. How you are still conscious is a wonder to me.’</p>
<p>Pursing his lips, he crosses his arms defensively. He had hoped for her not to mention that, as now there is no way that Calaeriel is going to tell him more. ‘I am mature enough to know when I have been outmatched,’ he sighs, ‘but this conversation is long from over.’</p>
<p>He allows Legolas to push him back into his pillows. ‘Drink, <em>ada</em>,’ the ellon says, his smile clear in his voice, ‘you must be thirsty.’</p>
<p>As he is, indeed, thirsty, Thranduil drinks from the cup that is placed against his lips. His gaze darkens as he realises just what combination of herbs the healer has put into it. ‘Very well,’ he says after drinking all of it, ‘you win. For now.’</p>
<p>A weight sinks into the other side of his mattress. It bears the familiar flowery scent of his daughter and moves to grab her hand. ‘We will get through this as we always do’, assures her.</p>
<p>‘That we will’, Galion, long a silent observer, affirms. The Elvenking can hear him move closer to the bed. ‘Will you be back in the morning?’ This question is aimed at Gwendis who responds to something he can’t quite hear over his involuntary yawn.</p>
<p>Now that he knows in his heart that he is safe, the exhaustion truly hits. His eyes flutter shut, and he is only aware of a hand gently brushing through his hair before even that last sliver of consciousness fades.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>‘He is asleep’, Calaeriel whispers, stroking the back of two fingers over her father’s cheek. It is difficult to tear her gaze away from him, having come so frighteningly close to losing him like she did her mother. Her eyes burn with unshed tears, and it is difficult to swallow. Eventually she forces herself to look up at her younger brother.</p>
<p>Galion, thankfully, voices what she isn’t sure she could: ‘What happened when you found him? I have never seen Annûndir so enraged and scared.’ Without breaking eye-contact with Legolas, he sees Gwendis off as she leaves to tend to other patients. After his long centuries of being alive, he has picked up enough to consider himself a modest expert in the tending of these sorts of wounds. </p>
<p>They occur far too often these dark days.</p>
<p>With the doors once again safely shut, Galion slumps a bit. He takes a seat beside Calaeriel on the bed, grabbing his friend’s slack hand. His voice is soft when he speaks: ‘I really feared I would lose him when Feren returned.’ After all, he knows that there isn’t much that can rattle the lord of the Silvan tribes. The little that does…</p>
<p>Sufficient to say, it isn’t something that brings up happy memories.</p>
<p>Legolas has his jaw set in a weird half-grimace. He, too, is looking intently at his father, as if not quite sure that what he sees is reality. ‘We were nearly too late. They had stumbled upon a nest overflowing with <em>Ungoliant’s</em> spawn—a location I know for certain the Mahtar cleared just a fortnight ago.’</p>
<p>‘Meaning the darkness is spreading its poisonous tendrils on our lands.’ Calaeriel’s face looks troubled. She might not be a warrior nor battlefield strategist, she has more than enough experience from observing her father to know what it means for them.</p>
<p>For a long while they sit in silence, lost in their thoughts, and worries.</p>
<p>Eventually, Calaeriel breaks it. ‘And those humans? Are they able to manipulate the energies? That cat that carried <em>ada </em>isn’t something that has ever existed in <em>Arda</em>.’ She pauses for a second, eyebrows furrowed in thought. ‘At least, not as far as I’m aware.’</p>
<p>‘I do not know for certain, however, I did notice the little one having a strong aura around her. It felt like father when he would create glowing animal figures for us to play with.’ He smiles at the memories, before visibly realising something. ‘We should find out for sure, maybe they can help lift <em>ada’s</em> burden. Or at least give him strength.’</p>
<p>It has been a source for concern and debate amongst the siblings for a long while.</p>
<p>‘You know he won’t want to’, Galion injects, though it is clear from his face that he would wish for nothing more than for his friend to do so. ‘We shall just ask later, after he has recovered, and the family rested. I have a good feeling about them.’</p>
<p>That makes both relax. If anyone is a good judge of character it is him. </p>
<p>Lips curling up in the slightest smile, he continues: ‘And now you, too, shall rest. I know you won’t be leaving him, but the bed is big enough for five grown elves.’ </p>
<p>The valet’s ability to seemingly summon blankets from thin air will never fail to amaze Calaeriel, and she can’t find anything untrue in his statement. Pulling off her shoes, she makes herself comfortable, finding her peace in her father’s steadily beating heart.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Elvish Glossary:<br/>adar/ada: formal and informal form of father<br/>athelas: elvish name of kingsfoil<br/>Arda: elvish for Middle Earth<br/>elleth/ellyth: female elf/elves<br/>ellon/ellyn: male elf/elves<br/>Eru: Eru Ilúvatar, the God/Creator of Middle Earth<br/>Mahtar: elite warriors of king Thranduil<br/>Ungoliant's span: the giant spiders that infest the realm of the Woodelves</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A ray of sun slithers its way through closed curtains. Thranduil shifts as his mind drifts back into consciousness. He feels drowsy, struggling to shake away the stubborn remnants of sleep sticking to him. It is as if he is wading in a pool of tar. </p>
<p>Blinking, he becomes aware of the weights lumped against him. A soft smile curls his lips as he feels the sleeping figures of his children. They are still very much asleep, no doubt exhausted from their excess worrying.</p>
<p>Gingerly and careful not to wake them, he stretches his limbs. Some mild stiffness aside, he feels worlds better. Thank <em>Eru </em>for Gwendis’ competent hands. Relaxing back into his pillow, he inhales the familiar scents of his room. Nothing seems to be changed, which is weirdly a source of comfort to him.</p>
<p>Absentmindedly, he strokes the blond tresses of Calaeriel, pondering over everything that has happened. Her news of hearing traitorous whisperings is worrying, especially considering how the attack that nearly felled him was too coordinated to be just courtesy of a lucky band of <em>yrch</em>. </p>
<p>Unbidden, the lethally beautiful face of the lady Gwedhedis is pushed to the forefront of his mind. He can well imagine the fuss she will kick up should he fail to make an appearance at the party she will undoubtedly throw for her naming day. What he would be willing to do to not dance with her…</p>
<p>Not wanting her to ruin his good mood, he roughly pushes all thoughts of her to the back of his mind. The longer he leans in his pillow, the stronger the pull of sleep. The herbs of Gwendis haven’t left his system quite yet, but he can’t afford to laze around a second longer.</p>
<p>He has work to do—guests to properly welcome.</p>
<p>Despite his determination, it costs him tremendous amounts of effort to get out of bed. At every breath of his children he freezes, knowing that if he awakens them there is no way he will see the Bardlings today.</p>
<p>Once fully upright and freed from the confines of his blankets, Thranduil has to steady himself against the bedpost. He feels a little woozy, the potion inside of him demanding he go lay back down. Taking a deep breath, he elects to firmly ignore the feeling.</p>
<p>Staggering over to his balcony he sighs in relief. Leaning against the wall, he relishes in the warmth of the sun. The trees exclaim their joy in seeing him all hale, welcoming him back. Underneath the joy and excitement, however, is the putrid feeling of terror.</p>
<p>Caressing a branch that gently wraps itself around his wrist, he closes his eyes. The urge to reach out with his magic and investigate the evil that is causing so much upset is overwhelming, but he knows that he does not yet have the strength.</p>
<p>Fainting is the very worst thing he can do right now.</p>
<p>Pulling away from the balcony, the Elvenking is faced with his next challenge: evading his guards. He walks along the walls of his chambers, not trusting his sleep riddled brain to direct him to the secret pathway without bumping into something.</p>
<p>As his fingers graze the twigs curling along the stone, he smiles when he finds a thin opening. Following the crack to the halfway mark, Thranduil gives it a firm push. A victorious grin curls his lips as the stone gives way, soundlessly opening to allow him passage.</p>
<p>The narrow corridor he steps into is part of a vast network of secret halls. Its winding path allows him to move unseen through the palace—exactly what he needs to evade his soldiers.</p>
<p>Although he doesn’t know for certain in which room Galion has placed the Bardlings, he does have a strong suspicion. Like the rest of his palace, the area he is heading to is a familiar one. Though he does not come there often with his recent policy of isolation, he knows which turns to make.</p>
<p>When he reaches his destination, he presses his ear a hair width away from the wall. He doesn’t hear man nor elf and thus he feels for the crack once again. This entry requires more strength to open forcing Thranduil to lean into the stone with all his weight to trigger the mechanism.</p>
<p>Now in a small circular area, he tries to orientate himself. On his direct left there is a hall. Heading right, he follows the decorated stone past a door leading to a quarter devoid of life to yet another door.</p>
<p>He pauses. Listening. He can hear footsteps too heavy to belong to an elf walk across carpet. Knowing he has found whom he was searching for he stops to knock.</p>
<p>The door opens mere seconds later.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>When the sun broke through the curtains Bard woke up feeling just as exhausted as when he fell asleep. Annoyed at himself for being unable to go back to sleep, he twists and turns for a few moments more before ultimately giving up. </p>
<p>Sitting upright in the most comfortable bed he’s ever laid in; his eyes instinctively search for his children. Bain is peacefully snoring away, and Tilda is bundled up against Sigrid. Their faces are slack in rest, their breathing calm and relaxed.</p>
<p>It brings a smile onto his lips.</p>
<p>Careful not to make too much noise as to wake them, he pads barefoot over the carpet. A robe made of a weird silky material is neatly placed on the bedside table on his right. Marvelling over its softness, Bard flicks it over his shoulders and pokes his arms through. The sleeves are much too long for him, but he isn’t at all bothered.</p>
<p>He’s never been one to care about fancy things. Besides, years of worrying about having enough food to feed his children will beat every shred vanity out of someone very quickly.</p>
<p>Bard almost misses the knock on his door. Half doubting whether he heard it correctly, he walks to open it. It never hurts to check.</p>
<p>Seeing Thranduil is a very happy surprise and he finds himself smiling. ‘Good morning’, Bard greets, stepping to the side to let the other inside. He watches the elf do so, and stop after he makes it a few metres in. </p>
<p>That is when he remembers and desperately wants to face palm. He doesn’t, because he is a serious adult and he’s dug his grave deep enough as is. ‘There a little seating area in the back, shall we… talk there?’ He’s unsure if the elf was planning to stay here for longer, but there is a lot he would like to discuss.</p>
<p>Thranduil only nods, holding out his arm for Bard to link into. ‘A good morning,’ he returns the greeting, ‘Did you rest well?’</p>
<p>Feeling weirdly nervous, Bard’s mind is too busy whirling around the question of how, and if, the elf would like to be assisted to try to produce a response. And attempting to both answer and say something at the same time results in an intelligent ‘ah…’</p>
<p>Luckily Thranduil has no problem finding where to sit and solves his problem for him. Even more luckily, he also doesn’t seem to make a big deal from his fumbling conversation. </p>
<p>Small mercies.</p>
<p>As he awkwardly takes place in the chair on the other side, Bard sighs in relief when the elf speaks first, asking: ‘Is the suite to your liking? It’s been long since we last received guests here.’</p>
<p>‘Yes!’ he instantly blurts. Cheeks colouring, he continues in a bit more sedate tone: ‘It’s beautiful, much fancier than anything we’ve ever stayed in.’ Why does he feel so flustered? Thranduil has done nothing but be exceptionally kind.</p>
<p>The elf chuckles, and Bard feels his blush deepen. Fiddling nervously with his hands, he can’t quite make himself look his host in the eyes.</p>
<p>‘Are the children all alright? I know Galion saw to it that you were taken care off, but I…’ Now it is the elf’s turn to be flustered. Was it an impulse visit for him? Somehow that thought is calming for Bard.</p>
<p>The bargeman nods, before inwardly face palming again after realising that Thranduil won’t be able to see that. ‘They are,’ he looks at the sleeping forms of his children with a proud smile, ‘Just very tired and still wrapping their heads around the sudden change. Laketown is all they’ve ever known.’</p>
<p>‘I am unfortunately all too aware of the pain of leaving one’s home behind.’ The elf has a faraway look on his face, and Bard doesn’t dare ask anything. From his blinking, the bargeman can visibly see him return to the present.</p>
<p>He can’t begin imagining what it’s like to live that long.</p>
<p>When Thranduil speaks again, he’s smiling. ‘Please know that you are more than welcome to stay as guests for as long as you desire.’</p>
<p>The hospitality and generosity of the elves is overwhelming. Thoroughly unused to such gestures, Bard doesn’t quite know how to make his thankfulness fully known. He can only hope the other can hear just how grateful he is as he responds with a choked up: ‘You are too kind.’</p>
<p>Tears prick his eyes. He struggles to swallow through his emotions that squeeze his throat like a vice. Thranduil’s face is gentle. Even a little worried. He’s thankful that he waits for him to collect himself. Taking a few deep breaths, Bard finally finds his voice.</p>
<p>‘Is there any way for me to earn our keep? This generosity is too much.’ It isn’t worded as smoothly as he would’ve liked, but it will have to do.</p>
<p>The elf’s small smile hasn’t disappeared. ‘If you wish to do so we can undoubtedly find you a suitable place where your talents can flourish,’ he says, ‘but honestly, there’s no need to be so humble. You saved my life.’</p>
<p>There’s something unsaid there, Bard can’t help but sense. It makes him wonder just what Thranduil’s position in the palace is. From the way the other elves deferred to him and how he was greeted, he knows he must be important.</p>
<p>He sighs. Those are musings for later.</p>
<p>‘Everyone would’ve done that’, Bard tries to wave off the praise, but the elf isn’t having it.</p>
<p>‘They wouldn’t, and you know that.’ There’s mirth in his eyes at the bargeman’s attempts to make his actions seem like they’re no big deal. He looks happy. At ease at his presence.</p>
<p>It makes Bard feel warm inside.</p>
<p>Suddenly thinking of something, he asks: ‘You know, there’s one thing I’ve been wondering about ever since coming here. How come no-one saw us when we were fleeing Laketown?’ It was almost like magic—gliding past people first so happy to throw rocks like they were nothing suspicious. </p>
<p>Thranduil’s smile widens to a smirk. ‘I am quite gifted at illusions if I would say so myself. For all the humans knew we were ordinary friends going out for a drink.’ He tilts his head, as if listening for something. Identifying what it is, he lowers his head. Bashfully almost.</p>
<p>Just about to ask what he heard; the doors are thrown open. ‘Ada!’ a female voice exclaims. ‘You had us worried sick.’</p>
<p>He gapes at the fair-headed elven lady rushing over to Thranduil. She is a female copy of his friend, dressed in the stunning gown she wore when he saw her the night before. Richly embroidered, her clothes must cost more than the entire town of Laketown is worth. </p>
<p>Her hair is askew, fabric wrinkled as if she slept in it. She sounds out of breath, like she’d ran for the entire time until finding him here. ‘I didn’t know what to think when I woke up without you there,’ she says, ‘Did you use the passageway to sneak past the guards?’ </p>
<p>Guards? Now Bard is even more curious as to Thranduil’s position in the palace, but he knows that this is nor the moment to ask. </p>
<p>He will find out eventually. </p>
<p>Hopefully.</p>
<p>Thranduil soothes her by stroking her left cheek. ‘I am terribly sorry, <em>iellig</em>. I just had to make sure Bard and his family were alright.’ She seems to mellow a bit, but even he can see that his friend will be in for a firm talking to later. </p>
<p>Going to stand when the elf starts to rise from his chair, he feels a pang of worry at seeing the tiny faltering. Clearly, his friend is still far from recovered. </p>
<p>He doesn’t fight the support of his daughter. ‘I actually would like to invite you to have a private breakfast with me and my family if you and your children feel up to it.’</p>
<p>‘I would love that’, Bard says. And, noticing the female elf’s worry, he adds: ‘How late would you like to eat? I will make sure my children are ready then.’</p>
<p>Thranduil doesn’t seem to quite know what time to give. Instead, it is his daughter that answers: ‘O, there’s no need to hurry. Maybe in an hour or so? I shall send for some servants to bring you clean garbs and escort you to the dining hall.’</p>
<p>Bard nods his agreement, smiling at the sight of the elf escorting her father out of the suite. Yes, he thinks to himself, his friend will be in for quite a firm scolding.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Elvish Glossary:<br/>Eru: Eru Ilúvatar, the God/Creator of Middle Earth <br/>iellig: my daughter<br/>yrch: orcs</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>